Ten Days
by Cold Ember
Summary: After ten days he began to doubt that they would ever find him. COMPLETE.
1. Part One

Big thanks to my beta, pruehall over on LJ. I don't own NUMB3RS. I really, really wish I owned Colby. But I think you all know that by now. As it takes place in the post "When Worlds Collide" world, there are some spoilers for the aforementioned episode.

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Ten Days: Part One

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He was going to die here; he knew he was. The first three days, he had adamantly believed that his team was coming for him. By the fourth day he had still believed that they were coming, but his conviction was beginning to waver. The fifth day he had still believed that they would find him, but he began to wonder if they would get there in time. On the sixth day he began to think that the idea of rescue was simply wishful thinking at that point. On the seventh day he began to seriously doubt that they would find him while he was still alive. On the eighth day he just started to pray that they would eventually find his body. On the ninth day he just hoped against hope that they would catch his murderer eventually. But now, after ten days, he seriously doubted that they would ever find his body, let alone his killer.

Ten days of pure hell had wreaked havoc on his psyche. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever really gotten out of jail at all. He considered that maybe he had simply been transferred to Gitmo. Sometimes he thought that he had made up his escape and his reconciliation with the team, using it as a defense mechanism against his own personal hell.

He had spoken to David several times. Sometimes it was friendly David, telling him that they were coming for him and talking about the Lakers game or some such. Other times it was a bitter and hateful David, saying that he loathed him and that he would be glad when he was dead, that this was what he deserved.

He still preferred hateful David to his captors. Men in black ski masks, asking him questions, reacting violently when he didn't give them the answer they desired. They almost made him long for Lancer's drug cocktails again. But he considered that it was, perhaps, the length of the torture that made it seem more painful than the actual torture itself. Lance had only tortured him for a little over a day; they had been torturing him for almost a week and a half.

They liked to have some variety in his methods, using everything from electroshock and beatings to drugs- though none of them as sophisticated as Lancer's had been, these were mostly relatively easy to get, not that it made the experience of them coursing through his veins any less excruciating.

He had made a stupid mistake and he knew it. He had gone to a scene alone. David was going to meet him there, but he had arrived before David and had and therefore had to make a stand against the half dozen or so heavily armed men alone. He had lost. Badly. He had taken one to his left arm and four or five in his vest, knocking him to the ground and his gun out of his hand, stunning him just long enough for them to chloroform him.

The next thing that he remembered was waking up in this room- more like a dungeon, really- cuffed to this chair. The men in the masks asking him question after question about his investigation, how he had found the place, who else knew about it- standard torture questions. Like hell he was going to answer them. He could only hope that they had all left when they took him, that they hadn't hung around and taken David when he had arrived on the scene, and that David wasn't somewhere else in this place, being tortured to death as well.

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	2. Part Two

Thanks to my beta pruehall over on LJ.

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Ten Days: Part Two

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When he had arrived at the warehouse he noted that Colby had, apparently beat him, judging by the fact that Colby's car was already parked in front of the place. But as soon as he opened his car door his gun was out of his holster- the air was acrid with the smell of gunpowder and another, closer look at Colby's car revealed that the hood and windshield were both bullet riddled; and there was blood on the pavement halfway between the car and the brick wall of the warehouse; and an FBI vest with 5 bullets lodged in it under the car. He didn't need to look at the name on the inside of the vest to know exactly who it belonged to.

He fished his phone out of his pocket, eyes still fixed on the spot on the ground as he pressed speed dial 3- Don.

"Eppes," came the usual, curt reply from his boss.

"Don, I'm at the warehouse. Colby beat me here. He's gone and there's blood and a whole lot of bullets in his car and vest," he said quickly and he heard Don curse on the other end.

"Alright, I'm on my way," he said before hanging up. David sighed, snapping his phone shut. He paused for a minute and then reopened it, thumbing the number 2 on his speed dial- Colby. He held his breath as it rang, but instead of the answer that he had been hoping for, all he got was Colby's voice mail.

"Hey, you've reached Agent Colby Granger. I'm not available at the moment, but if you leave a message I'll get back to you as soon as I can," Colby's voice said, strong a clear as he recited a message that David had heard hundreds of times before.

It wasn't like he had actually expected Colby to answer, but a part of him had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Colby had taken fire and had, somehow, managed to get away and was hiding somewhere. Or just running, trying to escape his pursuers. Fanciful at best. If Colby had been able to get away there would be a trail of blood- _if the blood was Colby's_- and he wouldn't have taken the time to dump his vest. Plus running after being slugged in the chest 5 times- not as easy as they make it look on TV. Colby was good- damn good, especially in firefights- but unless he was hiding a Peter Parker sized secret, there was no way.

He knelt down next to the car, a few feet from the puddle of blood, noting the empty clip and 20 or so .45 shell casings strewn on the ground. Clearly Colby had put up a hell of a fight, but it didn't look like he'd had a chance. His car looked like Swiss cheese, with the hood windshield and passenger side door taking the brunt of the bullets. It looked like they had started to shoot at him and he had used the door as cover. But those doors weren't made to withstand bullets- at least, not very many; the FBI reinforced them, but only enough to stop a few.

He stood up, scanning the rest of the scene and he zeroed in on a piece of brick wall about 10 feet from the car that had also been sprayed with bullets, leaving a mist of powder and chunks of brick on the pavement and David could see both foot and hand prints in the dust. And Colby's throw away along with a half dozen .38 casing and several more .45 casings. If David had to guess he would say that Colby had spent the first part of the firefight by the car before deciding that the car door had become practically useless as far as cover and made a break for the warehouse, where he could use the brick as cover. From there David speculated that he had been intending to try to either make a break for it or hold out long enough for help to come. Speaking of, why hadn't help come? It must have been one hell of a firefight, someone had to have noticed, someone should have called the police, yet there was no sign of any law enforcement on the scene other than himself. He would have to check why that was later.

David followed a line of shell casings- also .45- and yet another one of Colby's clips along the side of the building. Clearly, escape had been his goal. He followed them for about 50 feet until he reached an ally, a dead end, no way out. The wall was impossibly high, had to be at least 50 feet of smooth rock. No way in hell. He could only assume that Colby had then doubled back, he had gone far enough that the bit of wall that stuck out would no longer provide any cover at all, as proven by the numerous bullet holes in the brick. He had probably fired off several more shots with his .45 before running out of ammo and switching to his lightly loaded backup- a Smith and Wesson .38 Special with only six shots. Colby didn't carry backup rounds for that one. Once those had run out and the shooting had continued, the only option left would have been crossing back to the car and attempting to access the trunk where the shotgun, rifle and backup ammo were located. That had probably been when they had hit him. Without a weapon to provide cover fire, they would have found it relatively easy to hit him.

He dropped down to a knee by the puddle of blood, noting the tire tracks beside the puddle. Probably why there hadn't been a blood trail or anything. They had, most likely, hit Colby and then incapacitated and captured him quickly.

He knew that his partner was good under fire- better than anyone else on the team and the only person that David would want to be watching his back in a firefight, but sometimes you were just outmanned and outgunned. He glanced at some of the bullet holes, trying to guess about where they had come from. From the angle he figured that it was probably a little off to the left and he jogged off in that direction, his gun gripped tightly in his hands.

There wasn't much left, but it was clear that whoever had been shooting at Colby, they had been positioned there. He could see tire marks on the pavement as well as several spots of what appeared to be wiped up blood. So Colby had hit at least one of the guys. It wasn't really surprising- Colby was a good shot and considering the number of shots he had let off, the odds of him hitting some were, as Charlie might say, highly probable. But Charlie didn't work with them anymore. Charlie couldn't help him this time.

David stood up abruptly as he heard the sound of squealing tires behind him, raising his gun before lowering it again- it was just Don. Don's SUV screeched to a halt next to David's and he got out, a look of dread on his face.

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	3. Part Three

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal.

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Ten Days: Part Three

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Damn it. Liz had transferred up to narcotics, Megan was in DC, Charlie couldn't work with them anymore and now Colby had vanished. He was just… gone.

His team was falling apart. How did they go from having himself, David, Colby, Megan, Liz and Charlie to it being only himself and David? Two-thirds of his team were no longer on his team. _No. Colby's still on your team. He's just… not here at the moment…he'll be back. We'll get him back._ A voice in Don's head admonished him. He couldn't start thinking that Colby was gone forever, he needed to stay positive. They were going to get Colby back. Then only half his team would be gone.

He shook himself mentally. Colby wasn't just a statistic, he was a person, he was a friend. He was going to get Colby back because he was _Colby_, not so that he didn't feel like such a failure at leading his team; so that he didn't have to look at another empty desk in his team's work area. Not so that he didn't feel guilty for letting down another one of his agents, for letting Colby down - yet again. He was going to get Colby back because Colby was a good man, and he was a friend who deserved to have the best of the best making every effort to find him. Colby deserved to be saved.

He just hoped that it wasn't already too late.

He pressed down on the gas a little harder, willing his car to go faster, not wanting to lose even a second. He still remembered just how close it had been last time. The images of Colby's lifeless body were still as vivid as though he was once again standing on that boat, in that cabin, watching David pound on his best friend's chest in an effort to bring him back from the dead. This time he was going to do his damnedest to make sure that they arrived a few seconds before the deadly blow was dealt, not a few seconds after. He wasn't going to let his agent die again. One man could only get lucky so many times before that luck ran out. A person could only have so many close calls before the reaper caught up with them, and Don worried that perhaps it had finally caught up to Colby.

He sure as hell hoped not.

He skidded to a stop in the parking lot, noting that David's first reaction to the arrival of his car had been to point a gun in his direction. Clearly he was on edge. Then again, his partner had just disappeared.

He was silent as David ran through what he had found so far, tire tracks, spent casings, blood. A massive fire fight, yet only he and David had responded and they were there only because David had been headed there to meet Colby anyway. Warehouse district or not, someone should have been around to hear the shots. It was the middle of the day on a Wednesday and there should be people around - yet there were none.

At least, none that were still there. Perhaps whoever had taken Colby had somehow cleared the area prior to Colby's arrival. Possible, but improbable- it was hard to clear people out without either riot gear or lots and lots of shiny badges and a large amount of crime scene tape. People generally didn't take well to being herded out of an area. Well, there were other ways to clear people out, but not quietly. Most of the ways either involved a bomb, or a lot of firepower. Both tended to instigate mass 911 callings. Unless whoever had the heat threatened the people they were clearing out extremely effectively (which, unless they were all either young children, the elderly or just generally wimpy) still usually resulted in at lest one of two people going to the police or at least making a call to 911. Except there had clearly been a whole lot of firepower here and not a single 911 call. Sometimes the assailants would just incapacitate all potential witnesses. They would have to do a sweep of the entire area to make sure that that wasn't what had happened here.

As he wandered around the scene, examining the areas that David had pointed out- the blood, the bullet casings, clips and gun and the presumed enemy stronghold- he wondered why. Why had these people started to shoot at Colby? Why had they taken him? Why were they here at all? Had they, perhaps, been waiting for Colby? Or did they simply run into him by coincidence? The obscene number of bullet holes peppering Colby's side of the parking lot suggested that they had been prepared for war, but were they actually waiting for him? Just because someone is prepared for war doesn't mean that they're actually planning on waging one. Had Colby been in the wrong place at the wrong time and simply been unlucky enough to get caught in the middle of something? Were these guys even part of their case? It seemed unlikely that there would be multiple felonies linked to this particular part of the warehouse district, but maybe, as this was the criminal neighborhood. Hell, for all he knew this could be someone completely unrelated to their case that simply had a grudge against Colby; or maybe they had absolutely nothing to do with either Colby or the case. There was no way to know at this point.

He sighed and walked back over to Colby's car as David popped the trunk, lifting the lid with a gloved hand. They both peered into the trunk. The shotgun, an automatic rifle, Glock (which Colby always kept in the trunk just in case- Colby subscribed to a sort of Boy Scout brand of battle logic- better to have it and not need it than to not have it and then, in the heat of battle, go 'oh, shit, I really wish I had that right about now'), an assortment of knives, a set of lock picks, bolt cutters, several flashlights, a bullhorn, a taser, mace and several boxes of extra ammunition for each of the weapons. Colby's car trunk was a moving armory, not that it had done him much good this time.

"Finally," he heard David mutter irritably as several cop cars sped onto the scene, sirens blaring, their lights adding to the patriotic nightclub aura already created by Don and David's cars. The LAPD uniforms moved to secure the scene, per Don's orders, as David spoke to Matt Li the FBI crime scene tech who had arrived only a minute after the cops. Don was going to have to have a serious talk with the Chief of Police over at LAPD- there was no way that it should have taken LAPD this long to respond. They had called the FBI techs _after_ they had notified the local police, plus there should have been a patrol closer to the warehouse than the federal building, clear across town. When he called in that there had been shots fired and a federal agent was missing, it shouldn't have taken all day to respond. Had the men who had taken Colby still been there, David might be gone, too, because he would have been alone without backup.

Just as Colby had been.

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	4. Part Four

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. I still don't own NUMB3RS, though one of my friends did leave it to me in her Senior Will.

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Ten Days: Part Four

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He had hardly gotten out of his car when they started shooting. As he rounded the front of his car, heading for the entrance to the warehouse, the first bullets had whizzed past him. It was a miracle that none of them had found their mark. In fact, it was also a miracle that, despite the hundreds of shots that had been fired- mostly in his direction- he hadn't been hit sooner, and that when he finally had been hit, it had only been in his arm and in his vest. How he wasn't dead, he had no clue.

He had to attribute that one to sheer, dumb luck. Though, given his current situation, he wasn't sure how lucky he really was. It might have been better to die there, to have gone down in a hail of bullets. As it is, he would most likely going to be tortured to death. That, or his captors will decide that continued interrogation was pointless and that he was no longer of any use to them and simply shoot him there. He was startled to find that he didn't find the prospect entirely undesirable.

He had been pinned behind the car's door. A flimsy, thin piece of metal that wouldn't stop hardly any, if any at all and defiantly not the barrage that had be fired in his direction during the course of the fight. He didn't know why none of them had found their mark and ripped through his flesh. He could only guess and say that, most likely, the angle that his opponents were at to his car- if his estimation was correct- meant that most of the bullets hit the hood or windshield before they got anywhere near the door. Not that the door didn't take some serious heat- it looked like an overused dartboard- but it didn't take as much as it could have and that had probably been a saving grace. But it was a double edged sword that was preventing him from getting into his trunk, at least, without getting shot. He cursed the bureau for setting all their car trunks to open only if the key was inserted into the specially designed trunk lock under the drivers seat. Meaning no wireless trunk pop, no hitting the button inside the glove compartment to pop it, but rather having to physically move around to the driver's side of the car.

There was no way- no fucking way. He would be dead before he ever even got near the lock. Had he been able to pop it from the glove box or his keys, both of which were within easy reach, he probably would have been able to just reach into it from where he was and at least pull _something_ out, but as it was, he had enough firepower to star in a _Die Hard_ movie and no way to get to it. Which was just perfect, really. The lock was a great idea from a security standpoint, but a truly shitty one when considered from this perspective.

He knew he couldn't stay behind that car forever, the way the those bullets were slamming into the hood, it was a wonder that the engine had blown up already and he wasn't too fond of the idea of hanging around all day to wait for it to go up like a roman candle.

Going for the cover of the brick wall had _seemed_ like a good idea, at the time. It wasn't. It just presented them with an opportunity to shoot at him in the open and far less cover than he had originally hoped for. Plus it put him even farther from his spare ammo with now close to zero chance of getting to it. He had figured that making a break for it was probably his best chance at survival, but had soon discovered that it wasn't really an option. There was no way out where he had adequate cover. Hell, he didn't have a way out with _any_ cover. He was forced back to the small bit of brick that jutted out from the rest of the wall; and to make matters worse, he was down to his throw away.

He needed that spare ammo. He wasn't going to last long if he couldn't fire back. Going for it was the only option he had left. He would undoubtedly die without it, so he might as well chance dying when going for it. He wished that he hadn't wasted the six shots in his back up now. He had no way to lay down any cover fire. He was going to have to make a break for his car without anyway to detract their shots. Ten feet had never before seemed so damn far. He figured he'd try to fake it with his gun, make them think that he was going to fire on them, maybe throw them off enough to get him to the relative safety of the car.

His dash for the car didn't go well. They'd hit him. Several times. Grazed his arm, sunk at least four, maybe five, rounds into his chest. If he hadn't been wearing his vest he would have been dead right then and there. His gun had skittered off under the car- not that it matter, the damn thing was useless, anyway- and his head had connected hard with the pavement, making stars dance in front of his eyes, momentarily stunning him. A moment was all it took. The next thing he knew tires were squealing in front of him and someone was pressing a cloth soaked in what his hazy mind quickly identified as chloroform over his mouth and nose.

He had struggled, though he knew that it would make no difference. He was unarmed, injured and halfway to oblivion and they were armed and mostly unharmed, though he was proud to see at least 2 of them nursing wounds before he blacked out.

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	5. Part Five

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LJ. I still don't own Colby.

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Ten Days: Part Five

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David found Colby's gun by the front left wheel of the car, unloaded. His badge and ID were still missing, along with their owner. The cell phone was also unaccounted for, though it was doubtful that whoever had Colby still had the phone with them. No one was that stupid. At least, no one who managed to kidnap an armed federal agent in broad daylight and had about as much weaponry as your average army battalion was that stupid.

But just in case they did a trace on the GPS chip in Colby's phone, which had a fun new government toy in it that allowed the GPS chip to be activated without the phone being on. They found it in a garbage can several hundred years from the crime scene. So they roped that area off, too. They went through it with a fine tooth comb and, unsurprisingly, found nothing. Whoever had taken Colby was good, they were thorough. They hadn't left evidence behind. They hadn't left them with any leads to follow, any place to start to get their friend, their teammate, back.

Why they had left his vest was another mystery. Why would they take the time to remove his vest and leave it at the scene? It seemed like a silly thing to do. The only thing that David could come up with was that maybe they were worried that there was a GPS tracker or something in the thing. Probably not a bad idea, but still not something that the FBI did.

There were no security tapes in that area, at least, none that they could find. There were no witnesses, either. Apparently no one _ever_ went back there, never ever. Both David and Don knew that was complete bullshit, but they couldn't actually prove that anyone other than Colby and his attackers were back there that day. And even if they did know for sure that someone else had been there, they had no place to start on who that someone might be, or where to find them.

The residents several blocks down hadn't heard the shots because they'd been in the shower, they'd been watching a war movie, listening to loud music or they'd been doing laundry in the basement, so they couldn't hear anything. They'd been at the grocery store. They'd been out at lunch. They'd been at work. They'd been meeting with their divorce attorney (okay, so that one had defiantly been true- they had verified it because they didn't have any actual leads to follow up on). They'd been out shopping. They'd taken a sleeping pill.

By the end of the day David and Don were convinced that everyone in that neighborhood had either hearing loss or an incredibly active social life. They had probably heard every reason in the book- and some that weren't in the book and probably should be (I was have really hot, loud sex with my pool boy while my husband was at work)- as to why a person would fail to notice World War Three taking place a few blocks from their house.

It wasn't like they had only missed one or two shots. It wasn't even like they had missed 20. According to the crime scene techs at least 336 shots had been fired. 52 by Colby. Three clips from his service weapon plus the one in the chamber at the start and the six from his back up. That left a whopping 248 additional shots. Meaning that there were several shooters and they probably had automatic weapons. Forensics had identified bullets from at least three different guns in Colby's vest alone. There were probably more.

After two days they still had practically nothing. No matter how hard they looked, how many times they searched through the evidence, they never seemed to get any closer to finding him. They had passed the 48 hour mark. Not that that 48 hour mark meant much in this situation. This wasn't a normal kidnapping, 48 hours meant nothing.

48 hours didn't mean that there was no hope anymore.

48 hours meant nothing.

If they told themselves this enough, maybe they would believe it.

48 hours didn't mean that he was already dead.

48 hours meant nothing.

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	6. Part Six

Big thanks to my wonderful beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. I still don't own NUMB3RS. Which really upsets me quite a bit._**  
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Ten Days: Part Six

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They asked him his name. He didn't respond. They hit him. He didn't react. They cursed him, slamming the door on their way out.

They asked him who he worked for. He insulted their mother. They shocked him with the taser. He bit his cheek to stop himself from crying out. They cursed him again, slammed the door as the left the room again.

They asked him why he had been at the warehouse. He told them that he had met more intimidating Girl Scouts. They hadn't like that. They had injected him with something that made his veins feel like they were on fire. They left the room laughing at him. But the joke was on them; their stuff wasn't as bad as Lancer's Quinuclidinyl Benzilate had been. He got through that by keeping it all in perspective.

They asked him what he knew about them. They called him Special Agent Granger, made it clear that they knew exactly who he was and who he worked for. He had responded with what he thought had been a rather clever quip about how LA in July wasn't really a big ski destination and that, perhaps, they should consider either different apparel or a different vacation spot. He received both a shock and several kicks to the ribs for that. Apparently they hadn't found it as funny as he had. Than again, they probably weren't delusional.

It was about that time that David had begun to appear. Right after this episode, telling him that they were doing everything they could to find him, that he would be okay. Telling him to just hold in there. Admonishing him for baiting his captors. Somewhere along the line the hallucination had blended into a dream and the next thing he was aware of was a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on him.

They stitched up his arm, gave him antibiotics, food and water. They said that they didn't want him to die until he told them what they wanted. Guess they wanted him to be immortal, than, because he was never going to tell them a damn thing. After they had patched him up and fed him- only just enough to keep him alive, no more- they left him alone again and he once again drifted into sleep.

The next time they came in they told him that it had been three days. Only three days. It had seemed like an eternity. Three days. Surly his team would find him soon. They had to be close.

It had been three days.

They would get there soon.

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	7. Part Seven

Big thanks too my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. In other news, I have yet to secure my ownership of the television series NUMB3RS and the characters portrayed therein. And I'm really sorry that I didn't have this up yesterday, but real life got in the way again. Damn reality. Also, reviews are love.

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Ten Days: Part Seven

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**_Colby had been missing four days, and still they were no closer to finding him then they had been the day he vanished. In fact, they were probably even further now than they had been then. David was practically biting people's heads off for the sheer act of venturing within 10 feet of him.

Don finally broke down and went to the assistant director, practically begging him to (help? As I am not sure the AD can reinstate clearance on his own) temporarily reinstate Charlie's clearance so that he could at least try to help them find Colby. He figured that, perhaps, it was the sheer desperation in his eyes and his voice that caused the AD to give in and let Charlie help on the case. Or maybe he wanted to get Colby back almost as Don and David did. Either way, it didn't matter to Don, just as long as it helped get Colby back to them in one piece.

He was still refusing to entertain the possibility that it was already too late to truly save Colby. He wasn't giving up on him until he saw a body, which he hoped that he never did. He wanted his agent back, alive and in working order. He ignored the facts in front of him, ignored what his training told him.

There had been no contact yet; it had been four days, no demands, no ransom, no proof of life, no taunting massages. Nothing. Never a good sign.

But there also was no body. Always a good sign.

He chose to ignore the bad signs. He knew, logically, that if- _when. When they found him. Not if. When._- they found him he wouldn't be in very good shape. At best they (In the best case circumstances his captors) were simply holding him and feeding him very little, if at all. At worst they were trying to get information out of him. Well, that wasn't really the worst. At worst he was already dead. But again, Don wasn't considering that scenario. Colby was alive until proven otherwise.

Don hoped that Charlie would be able to work his magic on this one and find Colby. He prayed that Charlie would pull some crackpot algorithm or expression or whatever out of his back pocket and find the bastards who were holding Colby. Tell him where they were keeping him.

They were looking for a live agent; they weren't searching for a body. They would never be searching for a body. It had only been four days.

Alive until proven dead.

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	8. Part Eight

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. I have not acquired possession of NUMB3Rs since last I posted. But rest assured, I am working on it.

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Ten Days: Part Eight

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They asked him about Charlie. Who he was, what he did. He told them that he was a male prostitute. They took a lighter to his skin. Burnt his skin. He clamped down hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood in an effort to keep himself from screaming.

They asked him again. He told them that Charlie was a professional football player. They swung a steel toed boot into his side, right where his skin was still bubbling. This time he almost bit his tongue in half. He wasn't even aware of the tears sliding down his cheeks, cutting a path across his dirty skin.

They asked him again why Charlie was helping the FBI, what he was doing for them. This honestly surprised him. Charlie had lost his security clearance. He shouldn't be doing _anything_ with the FBI. Not anymore. And they were, apparently, watching the FBI. Another surprise.

He told them the truth, or at least, some of it. He told them that he didn't know why Charlie was at the FBI, didn't know what he was doing there. He supposed that they believed him because he hadn't bothered to cover up his surprise earlier. They still shocked him, though. Probably just for good measure. He was running out of surfaces in and around his mouth to bit on. He had torn his lips, cheeks and tongue apart with his teeth, clamping down on them to keep his cries of pain inside. He didn't want to give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. He refused to see the satisfaction, the triumph in their eyes. The delight that they would undoubtedly take in his agony.

Before they left they reminded him that this was his fifth day with them. Oh, joy. Happy Anni-fucking-versary.

The men left and David came back again. This time, though, it was angry David.

This time David told him how much he despised him, how David hoped that he suffered long and hard here before they finally killed him. Told him that this was exactly what he deserved. That he had earned this punishment fair and square for his lies.

David ranted hatefully at him for what seemed like hours and Colby thought it ironic that, though he could keep himself silent as these men waged a full scale war on his body, a patch of empty air could break him. Word that only he could hear coming from a spot that was occupied by nothing, save a few flies from time to time as they passed through. Any other time the sight of a house fly buzzing directly through David's forehead without ever even slowing down probably would have been funny. But there was nothing funny about this.

This time he was aware of the tears falling from his eyes. As much as the torture hurt, it hurt more to hear David say those things to him.

Even if it wasn't really David.

But he didn't want fake David to leave. He like the hate better than the oppressive silence.

That was what he had come to. He actually found _comfort_ in his best friend hating him.

It was pathetic and he knew it.

Maybe that was what really hurt. It wasn't David's nonexistent words, but rather the fact that Colby was more than happy to hear them, as long as it was David's voice speaking them.

David was his thread to the outside world. David was keeping him sane.

Could it get any more ironic? His hallucination was protecting his sanity.

* * *


	9. Part Nine

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. Still don't own NUMB3RS.

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Ten Days: Part Nine

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**_After almost a week they still hadn't found Colby. His partner was still missing and they were still no closer to finding him. Charlie was trying to work his numerical magic, but he didn't really have much to go on. Charlie was trying, and he was incredibly apologetic about his lack of results, but he can't really blame him for not being able to come up with anything since they gave him almost nothing to work with.

Don brought Liz back. The idea being that maybe a fresh pair of eyes (don't Charlie, Larry and Amita have eyes? Were their eyes just not fresh enough for Don? But he supposed that Don had wanted a pair of fresh FBI eyes) might catch something that they hadn't. He can tell that Liz thinks that it's unlikely and he has to agree. There really isn't anything to view with fresh eyes. There isn't anything to view, period.

He was still running through every single fingerprint that we found at the scene- there were a ton of prints outside of the warehouse, and not exactly a few on Colby's car. He was sending each and every print through AFIS and looking through the life history of the person each print connected to. Which was only about half of them and the ones that he had gotten matches to had all turned out to be law abiding citizens. Not helpful.

The tire tracks had been a very quick dead end- they had come up Firestone tires that were used on a number of vehicles- mostly SUV's. Such as Don's Chevy Suburban. Just in case they had run the list of people they had prints from on the crime scene against owners of vehicles with that model of tire. They'd gotten several hits. Such as Don. And David. And the guy that lived two apartments down from Colby. None of that helped them. So they abandoned the tire prints.

They had tried for matches on the bullets and shell casings found at the scene, too. The techs had run every single slug and case through the system. At this point David was fairly certain that the forensics guys wanted to kill him. Between the prints, the tire tracks and ballistics evidence he was having them run, not to mention all the other crime scene evidence they were working in overdrive. The usually friendly forensic technicians had taken to being almost as snappish and irritable as David and Don. People were taking incredibly round about ways to get about the FBI building in an effort to avoid both David and Don and the forensic guys. Elevators tended to empty surprisingly fast when one of them entered and use of the stairs had increased tenfold.

At this point David vacated an elevator as quickly as possible when a forensic guy got on, too. He knew that he was the source of much of their ire due to the workload that he had imposed upon them ad his less than friendly attitude to them (it hadn't been anything personal, it was just that less than friendly was now considered to be one of his better moods. It went down from there, encompassing irate, pissed off, enraged and homicidal, to name a few. One of his other 'better' moods was typically referred to as 'too sleep deprived to kill me') had made them more than a little bitter towards him. And these were the guys who could cover up a murder in their sleep. It was best not to anger them and, if you did happen to be stupid enough to tick them off, to avoid them at all costs.

He knew that Don was trying to get search warrants for every premises owned by the subjects of their investigation. At that very moment Don was trying to convince some judge that, since Colby had been there to investigate them when he had been abducted, there was reason to believe that the men were somehow involved. David doubted that any judge would buy it; these guys owned upwards of 30 properties in LA alone- not exactly a contained search. If it had been a couple of places, they probably would have had a decent shot. Hell, if they could narrow it down to a couple of more likely locations…

Wait a minute. They needed to figure out which of those 30 some odd properties had the highest probability of being the one where Colby was being held.

He needed to find Charlie. Now.

* * *


	10. Part Ten

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. NUMB3RS still isn't mine.

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Ten Days: Part Ten

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**_

A week, they told him. He had been here a week.

It seemed longer. Much, much longer. It seemed like he had been here for years.

They had finally stopped asking questions about Charlie. They had gotten back to asking him why the FBI was investigating them. He wasn't going to tell them.

He could tell that they were getting angrier and angrier with each and every question that he didn't answer. Every witty comeback just increased their fury. They weren't going to keep him alive much longer. His usefulness was getting very close to being up- they wanted answers and he wasn't going to be giving them any. They were beginning to realize that they wouldn't be able to break him. At least, not before they killed him. They weren't skilled enough in the art of torture to be able to find the delicate balance between bending the human spirit far enough to break it without breaking the body first. And the phrase 'dead men tell no tales' wasn't just a pirate catch phrase- it was truth.

He was running out of clever retorts. Out of snarky responses to their questions. So when they asked, most times he simply didn't answer at all. His silence seemed to irritate them more than his insults and slights on everything from their mother to their shoes.

Well, at least they disliked the silence as much as he did. He'd rather have David tell him how much he despised him and they would rather have him tell them that they enjoyed screwing their own mother.

So they burnt him with the lighter. He now had a line of burns running up his torso and a very mangled inner lip.

They asked again. This time he spits in their face. They shock him with the taser. They press it right up against the tender patched of charred skin.

He can't help it this time. There's nothing left in his mouth to bite.

He screams. He curses himself. He swore that he wouldn't give them the pleasure of hearing his pain, of making him cry out. He hates himself for showing such weakness.

They've clearly enjoyed his open display of agony. It seems to lift their spirits and they laugh happily as they leave him alone in the room once again.

This time sympathetic David is back. He can almost feel David's skin against his as the hallucination wraps a comforting hand around the back of his neck and rests his forehead against Colby's. David tells him that everything is going to be okay. Tells him that they will find him. That they're coming.

He can't stop it. He cries. He sobs as hallucination David comforts him, whispering soothing words in his ear. Promising him that the real David will come and save him soon.

He hopes that his crazy mind is telling the truth, because he doesn't know how much longer ha can last.

Sooner or later they'll kill him. Either they'll take the torture too far and accidentally kill him, or they'll get fed up with trying to get answers from him that he'll never give up and just kill him.

He hopes it's quick.

* * *


	11. Part Eleven

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. I still have no claim to ownership of NUMB3RS.

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Ten Days: Part Eleven

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**_

It was well past midnight and he'd been working almost nonstop for the past two days, ever since David had come to him, babbling excitedly about properties. Eventually David had managed to articulate that he wanted Charlie to run an analysis on all the properties owed by Martin Shepherd to see which ones had the highest probability of being where Colby was being held.

It assumed a great deal, most notably that Shepherd was, indeed, the one who had Colby, but at this point, Charlie was willing to go with it. He wanted to find Colby. He felt useless, Don had brought him in four days ago and he had yet to come up with anything constructive. He knew that Don must have pulled some serious strings to get him in on this case and he felt terrible for letting his brother down.

It wasn't only his brother that he was worried about disappointing. He didn't want to let David down, either. David had a look in his eyes that scared Charlie. It reminded him of the expression on Don's face after those men had driven his car off the road and shot at him. It was uncontained fear. Fear that one might lose his brother. David and Colby were, for all intents and purposes, brothers, and David's brother was missing, possibly dead. He might die and David was obviously scared to death of that. Terrified that he was going to lose his brother.

And angry. David was angry. He could tell that David was barely holding it together. He'd seen the man snap at everyone from an agent delivering a file to him to the poor kid at Starbucks. Charlie had apologized to the kid and left him a ten dollar tip- twice as much as their two drinks had cost. But David had yet to snap at him. He'd simply turned and left the room several times, undoubtedly to prevent him from snapping at Charlie. Charlie appreciated that; it was more restrain that Don had shown more than once. But Don was his brother; he was used to Don's moods and had learned to weather them.

Neither David nor Don had snapped at Larry or Amita as of yet, though the same could not be said for Charlie. He had snapped at both of them, but they understood that it was nothing to do with them. There was a chain of screaming, snapping and snarling. The director put the pressure on the assistant director in charge of the LA field office and assistant director put pressure on Don (to Don's credit, he had only snapped back once, telling the assistant director that no one wanted to find Colby more than he did, that he was doing everything he could and that being called in there ever half hour to be told that getting Colby back was important was only hindering his efforts. He'd been called in to see the AD much less frequently after that). Don snapped at Charlie (snapping at David would have been tantamount to suicide, even Don recognized that fact) and Charlie snapped at Larry and Amita. He wasn't sure who they snapped at, if anyone.

But most of all, he didn't want to let Colby down. Colby had always been nice to him. The young agent had taken to coming to see Charlie during tough cases to bounce idea's off him, ideas which more often than not helped to inspire Charlie to try something that led to a break in a case. And, more importantly, Colby had become a good friend. Even after Charlie had lost his clearance Colby still had lunch with him at least once every couple of weeks, depending on his schedule. He didn't treat him any differently now that he lost his clearance to work with the FBI. Don was a bit more reserved with him now, and David was also a bit more wary of him, but Colby treated him the same as ever.

He had actually gone out for beers with him and Larry a couple of time, too. Both Don and David had declined the invite, both saying that they had dates. Well, Don said he had dates both times, David said he had a date one time and that he was meeting Bishop for a chess lesson the other time.

He missed Colby. He had been missing for eight days now so he desperately wanted his algorithm to work. Wanted it to help them find Colby. David had come to him two days ago, excited, blabbering on about if Charlie could do some sort of equation thing or whatever to find the most probable location for them to be holding Colby at. Charlie hadn't even bothered to correct him about the equation/expression thing; he didn't have a death wish. And it was a good idea. One that had the potential to find Colby.

But it had been two days and he had reworked the algorithm dozens and dozens of time, but to no avail. It had yet to kick out any useful results. He glanced over at his computer. The program had been running with yet another tweaked algorithm for over an hour. He was extremely hopeful about this newest version. Then again he had been hopeful about all the previous ones, too.

He stared at it, as though staring would make it work faster. Would make it tell him where Colby was. He knew the saying, that the watched pot never boils, but his logical side knew that this was nonsense. It was superstition, pure, simple and meaningless. His computer would work the same speed whether he watched it or not. Staring at it wouldn't slow it down or prevent it from completing its work.

Glaring at it wouldn't speed it up, either, but still he continued to bore holes through it with his eyes, willing it to compute more quickly, to come up with _something_. Anything. Because if this newest version didn't work, he was out of ideas. He couldn't think of any more ways to improve his algorithm. He needed this version to work, to tell him where they were hiding Colby. If it didn't he had failed. If it didn't work, he failed Don, David and especially Colby. He didn't want to let Colby down. If Colby died, or they never found him, the team would be completely shattered. He wasn't a profiler- _not like Megan,_ an unbidden and frankly unwelcome voice in the back of his head muttered, but he pushed it away- but it was painfully clear to him that if, heaven forbid, they didn't get Colby back alive, David would be gone soon, too. Gone from the FBI and maybe worse. A possibility that he didn't want to even fathom. And then Don would be left alone without a team. And Charlie feared that Don would be damaged beyond repair as well. To lose an entire team so quickly would be devastating.

It was odd. He had always considered Meagan to be the glue that held the team together, but maybe he was wrong. Because they had survived Megan's departure. It had been rough, yes, but they had survived. His quick mental assessment of the team using group dynamics would have indicated to him that Megan or Don was the underlying force that kept them together, but that didn't seem to be the case. Colby and David were the perfect partners, their personalities complemented each other perfectly and their strong friendship only served to improve that. Maybe it was David and Colby who held the team together, because if you lost one, the other was likely to follow soon after. And that right there was half the team. Though Don and Megan had been senior, it was Colby and David who had held it together. Talk about invisible underlying currents.

So he stared at the screen and prayed that it would be successful.

Logic be damned.

* * *


	12. Part Twelve

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. And still I don't own NUMB3RS.

A/N: I apologise for the relative lack of updates this past week. It's been crazy and the power outage we had Tuesday didn't help (not only did it stop me from posting a new chap on Tuesday, it also took away an entire night of European History paper writing, which would be why I didn't update on Thursday. Friday was because I had a banquet to attend and I didn't get home until morning).

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Ten Days: Part Twelve

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**_

No one is coming for him. No one is going to save him. Not this time. It's a painful truth, but one he is forced to recognize. If they haven't found him by now, they won't. It's been nine days. There's a window and it's long gone. Closed and locked, boarded up. Might as well have never been there at all for all the good it does him now.

His captors seem to know that this is the end of the road as well. Today they took a new approach. They didn't ask him a single question. They just beat him. Shocked him. They drugged him again, turning his veins in to tunnels of fire. Burnt him from the inside out. At least they didn't burn his skin again. It was bad enough having his insides burn, he didn't want his outsides to burning with them.

They left him to his pain, as usual. They hadn't fed him in days, nor had they treated his arm or given him any antibiotics. He suspected that, at this point, they were planning on just letting him die in here, speeding the process along a bit with their torture. He wasn't sure what he would die of first: the infection that was brewing in arm, starvation, thirst or the torture itself. He just hoped that whatever killed him did so quickly.

David didn't come. He would have preferred the jaded and seriously pissed off David yelling and cursing at him to the defining silence that he was now forced to endure. He would do just about anything to hear a voice. Any voice. At this point he'd settle for an extremely long winded lecture on high level math from Charlie. Hell, even Lancer's constant chatter had been better than this.

Maybe the silence would kill him.

He wondered if they would ever find his body. He doubted it. These guys seemed like pros. Well, kind of. Their torture techniques, while painful, were sub par. They were painful, sure, but they didn't really do much to convince him to talk. They might be professional criminals, but they were amateur torturers. They'd probably learned all their skills from TV and the movies. Not exactly a reliable source. But they were professional criminals, smart enough that they had managed to evade the FBI for this long. Professional enough that the FBI hadn't gotten close. If they had, these guys would have moved to a different location by now.

He was screwed and it really would have been nice to have something- anything- to distract him from that fact.

He remembered the last time that he had spoken to his mother. She had called him while he was in prison, telling him that she was disgusted by him, that there must have been a mix up at the hospital, because no son of hers would betray his country. Telling him that she never wanted to see him or speak to him ever again. That as far as she was concerned, he didn't exist.

That was the last time that he had spoken to his mother. He had tried to call her once after he got out of the hospital, but a neighbor answered, saying that his mother had left and was now living in her father's old lake house, completely cut off from all humanity, save for the woman who delivered groceries to her once a week. Then the neighbor had told him that she didn't want to speak with him. And had gone on to add that he, too, was disgusted by Colby's betrayal. He didn't bother to correct him, it was easier to let them all go on believing that he was a traitor, to let them keep hating him. He didn't want to have to explain. It was too hard. So he let go what was left of his life back in Idaho.

Now he wished that he hadn't. He wished that he had gone out to that cabin and made her listen to him, explained what had really happened. Maybe she still would have hated him, but at least he would have tried. Now he felt like he had just given up. The next time that she would ever hear about him would be when Don or David either called her or flew out to Idaho to tell her that he was dead. He hated himself for that.

He had so many regrets, more than he had realized. But now he had nothing to do but think about all the things that he wished he had done differently, all the things that he regretted doing, or not doing.

He regretted agreeing to that op.

He regretted not confiding in David and telling him about the op, protocol be damned.

He regretted not going to see his father's grave last year because he was in prison.

He regretted all the people whose lives he has ended over the years. He always regretted having to end another life, but some more than others. The man who had a gun pointed at David's and was going to fire he didn't regret hardly at all. The only regret there was that it had to end that way, that he couldn't talk the guy down, but when it came down to it, he didn't for a second regret stopping him from killing his best friend. He didn't have much regret for killing the men who had tried to kill Charlie and had held Bonnie Parks hostage, either. He did regret killing that man in the FBI interrogation room, though. He didn't doubt that he was a guilty, perverted bastard- at least, he hadn't at the time, now there was always that little voice of doubt in the back of his head wondering if maybe he had been innocent, that maybe they had got the wrong man. They never found real, solid proof, so the doubt gnawed at him. Just like that night in Afghanistan.

Hell, he still regretted not asking Olivia Martindale to the senior prom.

He regretted all kinds of things, but what he regretted the most now that he was so close to death were the things that he hadn't _said_. The goodbyes that he never said to Megan before she left. Telling David how much he cherished their friendship. Telling Don how much he appreciated all the faith he showed in Colby and for giving him more chances than could ever be expected. Thanking Charlie, Larry and Amita for all the time and effort they put into their FBI work.

He could fill the FBI file room with things that he wished he had said, but never had.

He wished that he had some paper so that he could write some of those things down, but he didn't really see that happening.

This wasn't the way that he had wanted to die. Not even close.

* * *


	13. Part Thirteen

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. I still don't own NUMB3RS.

A/N: This is the penultimate chapter. Only one left. The final chapter will be posted either later today or tomorrow. I haven't decided which yet.

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Ten Days: Part Thirteen

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**_

Charlie had come through for them. He'd narrowed it down to two properties and the judge had agreed to give them warrants for both properties. Don was leading a team into one, and he was leading the second. He could only pray that they would find Colby at one of the properties.

Both teams went in at the same time- they didn't want to risk tipping the suspects at either location off by going into the other too early. On Don's signal David led his team into the house and as SWAT slammed the shocked occupants down onto tables and against walls he heard Don's voice through his earpiece declaring that their location was clear, there was no one there.

David led three of the SWAT guys down a hallway, stopping at a door. One of that SWAT guys pulled open the door and David swung around it, gun raised, ready to shoot anything that moved- so long as it wasn't Colby. He was met by a dark staircase. He crept slowly down the stairs, SWAT in toe and felt around for the light switch when he reached the bottom of the stairs. When he located it he flipped the lights on, causing a dull glow to illuminate the room and on the other side of the room- Colby.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping to a knee in front of his partner and heard one of the SWAT agents calling for the ambulance that had been on standby a few blocks away. Colby was slumped in a chair, his hands and feet cuffed to it, his shirt gone and a nasty looking injury on his left arm that was oozing. David quickly pulled his handcuff key out of his back pocket and released Colby's hands. When his hands were no longer bound to the chair he slumped forward, falling into David's shoulder, obviously unconscious, and David automatically wrapped his arms around his partner's body, partly to keep him from slipping off his shoulder and falling to the floor, and partly to reassure himself that Colby was there, that they had finally found him. It had taken them ten days and Colby look considerably the worse for wear, but they had found him. He was breathing. He was alive. He handed the key off to the SWAT team leader, who went about releasing Colby's feet as David supported his partner's limp body, silently praying that Colby would be okay.

Once Colby's feet were free David lowered him gently to the ground, holding Colby's back against his chest. He sat on the ground of the basement, Colby's head tucked securely under his chin until the medics arrived a few minutes later and he relinquished Colby into their care. He watched as they loaded Colby onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, jumping in with him, his glare practically daring any of the medics to protest. The entire way to the hospital he held Colby's hand in both of his, hoping that Colby would make it and that they hadn't done permanent damage to him. Psychological or physical.

They forced him away from Colby when they reached the hospital. Took Colby into a trauma room and led David into the waiting room. An hour later a doctor had come out to see him, telling him that they were taking Colby into surgery to deal with a number of problems, including an infection from a bullet wound in his arm and a couple of broken ribs that were getting dangerously close to nicking a lung. The doctor said that he had been lucky.

Lucky.

If that was lucky, he would hate to see what this guy defines as unlucky.

* * *


	14. Part Fourteen

Thanks to my beta, pruehall, over on LiveJournal. And you know, I still don't own NUMB3RS or Colby. Which still upsets me greatly.

So, this is it. The final chapter of _Ten Days_. It's been fun and I hope that you've enjoyed reading it as much as I haven enjoyed writing it.

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Ten Days: Part 14

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**_

The next time that he is aware of anything he is sure that he'd dead. Because what he feels isn't the hard surface of the straight-backed chair that had been his home for the past ten days, but rather what feels like a warm, soft bed.

There was something on his face. Something covering his mouth and nose. But he couldn't find the energy to do anything about it. He was too tired and his arms felt like lead. He could still breathe, so it didn't seem too pressing and he let it be. The next thing to register was a rather annoying beeping noise. It was persistent and steady; and irritating beyond belief. He forced his eyes opened and his senses were assaulted by the brightness that resulted. He squeezed them shut again, suppressing a groan.

Then his muddled brain put it all together.

Hospital. He was in a hospital.

Which meant that… that they had found him after all. He felt something warm and soft encompassing his hand and he turned his head slightly before once again forcing his eyes open. It was David. David was sitting in a chair next to the bed, his head resting on the bed, fast asleep, his hand gripping Colby's lightly.

He couldn't help it. He cried. Again. But not tears of sorrow, or of defeat as they had been before, these were tears of joy. They had found him. He was safe. He felt a sob wrack his body as he squeezed his eyes shut, wondering when the hell he had started to cry so damn much. It hurt to cry, the effort of each breath hurt like hell, but still he cried. His entire body hurt, but he didn't care. Right now all that mattered to him was that he was out of that room, away from that chair.

His sobs woke David and this time Colby really could feel David's hand on the back of his neck, really could feel David's forehead pressed up against his own as David- the real David- told him that everything was alright. That he was safe. That he was okay.

He was safe.

He was home.

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End file.
